The Jackal of Nar (96 page)

“To Tharn,” explained Richius. “But Voris thinks Tharn’s dead, and that we only have a short time left. He knows we love each other, and that we want to be together. Call it a gift, a way of thanking me for helping him, I don’t know. But he wants us to be happy for these last few days.” He knelt before her, ignoring the mud soaking his knee. “We can be together, Dyana.”

Dyana shook her head. “No. We cannot.”

“Why, Dyana? No one’s heard from Tharn in months. How will he ever know what happens between us now? Even if he is alive, Voris won’t tell him.”

“Have you forgotten everything, Richius? It
does
matter. You once told me that Tharn warned you not to pursue me. Voris’ blessing is not enough. If Tharn is alive, then he will find out what we have done. He will, because he is Drol and he loves me. I am glad we no longer need to hide our love from the warlord, but it changes nothing. I am sorry, we cannot be together, not the way you wish.”

Richius looked at her carefully. “Dyana, this is hard for me to say, but I think Voris is right. Tharn could be dead.” He fell back and sighed. “We don’t have much time ourselves. I want to love you, at least for a little while before I die. And I know you want the same thing, too.”

“You made a promise to me. You told me you would never risk Shani. Do you remember?”

“Dyana …”

“Do you?”

She touched his cheek and he nodded. He did remember the abominable promise. Dyana smiled at him sadly.

“It does not matter who knows of our love, Richius. Let the whole world know. Even Tharn already knows our feelings. He sent me with you so you would protect me. He trusted you. And me. But he must never think we have been lovers. It is our actions that could doom us, not our hearts.”

“Dyana, Tharn’s probably dead.…”

“Probably?” asked Dyana. “Probably is not enough for me, Richius. You do not know Tharn. He is a survivor. I must know he is gone before I can be with you. There is too much to risk.”

“I can’t bear this, Dyana. Am I supposed to find proof of his death first? Will we never be together?”

“Not while Tharn lives. Not if our little one is to be safe. We—”

She stopped suddenly and held her breath. Her eyes froze on something over his shoulder. Richius turned at once, following her gaze toward the forest across the brook.

“Dyana?” he asked. “What is it?”

“In those trees,” she whispered. “I saw them move.”

Instinctively Richius dropped his hand to his side, but Jessicane wasn’t there. He focused sharply on the woods, trying to catch a glimpse of what Dyana had seen. But he saw nothing.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “I don’t see anything.”

“Someone is there,” said Dyana. Her eyes were locked on the trees. “A man. He is looking at me.”

Then Richius saw it, a hint of white skin and a small rustle of leaves. It was a man. A Triin. Richius could just make out the spark of two gray eyes.

“You there!” he called, getting to his feet. “Who are you? Come out and show yourself.”

The branches were still.

“Come out,” Richius demanded. “Or shall I come in there?”

He had no intention of going into the trees, but the tone of his voice made the hidden man step forward. Very gradually his face emerged from the thickets, a thin white face, painted half green. His hair was green, too, dyed the color of new grass, and around his chest was draped a long blue jacket, belted with a golden sash. A jiiktar was strapped to his back but he held up both hands as he came forward, carefully showing his peaceful intent.

“Vantran,” said the man. “Min voco Vantran.”

“Richius!” blurted Dyana. “He says he is looking for you.”

It was the same man Richius had seen when first approaching Falindar, the one Lucyler had called Kronin’s herald. Richius tried to recall his name. Was it Hakan?

“Hakan?” he called to the warrior. “Is it you?”

The warrior’s face glowed. “Vantran!” he said, and splashed across the brook toward them, babbling excitedly. When he reached them he bowed deeply to Richius, greeting him with more gibberish Richius couldn’t recognize.

“Dyana?” Richius asked.

“His name
is
Hakan,” said Dyana. “Do you know him, Richius?”

“Not really. He greeted me when I came to Falindar. He’s one of Kronin’s men. What’s he saying, Dyana? Is Kronin here?”

“Yes,” Dyana cried. “He
is
here, Richius. Kronin has come. And Richius … Lucyler is with him.”

T
o call the lions is to speak with the gods.

So Karlaz had said. It was a gift, much the same as Tharn’s own, and the warlord had been unable to explain it further. Or unwilling.

In the days during his recuperation, Tharn had much to ponder. Isolated in the shabby house, his cunning-men gone, he was denied the company of the trees and wildlife. He was, in a sense, a prisoner of his own inadequate and damaged body, and because he was so weak he recovered slowly. It was a painful, boring process, and after a week he had begun to feel the weight of his own loneliness. To Karlaz’ stoic people he was still Storm Maker, a Drol, and even the woman who attended to him seemed unwilling to warm to him. He had learned her name was Kreena. And that was all he learned. Kreena fed him, washed him when he needed it, and was never more than a shout away. She had
nursed him back to a semblance of health, all the while leaving him to his own brooding solitude.

And Karlaz had come to him infrequently. The master of the lion folk was preoccupied with matters of great weight, and only seldom came to speak with the Drol. Karlaz ordered Tharn to rest, and Kreena kept that mandate, making sure that Tharn never wandered far from his mattress. Together they planned, Karlaz and Tharn, and what passed for a grudging friendship developed between them. Tharn liked Karlaz. To him the warlord was honorable, like Voris and Kronin. But as the days and nights progressed, Tharn grew ever more restless. He wanted to know what was happening outside his four walls. He begged the quiet Karlaz for information, for a scrap of news, but Karlaz was like Kreena. Neither one of them gave Tharn any more than he needed.

Until today. Today Tharn turned his face skyward, loving the sun and its heat. He was on a ledge overlooking the valley of the lions. All the world seemed at his feet. Up here, high with the bracing wind, he thought of what Karlaz had told him. Here a man really could speak to the gods.

Tharn looked down into the valley. It was a dry land, overrun with tall, spidery brush that turned the earth to amber. Trees of dull green with huge, ballooning canopies dotted the plain, their branches ripe with fruit and birds, and lions lounged in the shade, exhausted from the heat and hunting. The grasses shuddered with their stalkings, their spiked tails jutting up like shark fins, frightening the flocks of egrets and the meaty, lesser beasts that were their prey. Near the south side of the valley was a sluggish river, thick and dark from the lack of rain, where thirsty lions and crocodiles drank. A wind brushed its breath across the water, making it stir in the sun. A wayward leaf fell from a tree. Tharn watched it all with awe, enraptured by its beauty. Perhaps it was his mood or the thrill of being in the light again, but it made his throat constrict. He felt whole again, a man like any other. He felt powerful.

Karlaz and the warriors gathered around the ledge. The warlord had summoned them from the villages and they had come, jiiktars sharpened and long hair braided for war. On their faces were the implacable masks of vengeance, that same austere
countenance Karlaz wore and never dropped. They had gathered at their master’s bidding eager for blood, to avenge the deaths of their brothers, and to show the might of Chandakkar to the barbarians from Nar. Tharn thrilled at the sight of them. They reminded him of Dring’s wolves—lean and hungry, and a little wild around the eyes. Men could be beautiful, he decided, like the valley. He was not beautiful but he was one of them nonetheless, and the notion made him proud. Soon they would fight for the Saccenne Run. Soon Naren skulls would be crushed in the powerful jaws of lions, and the emperor would tremble at the might of Lucel-Lor.

Tharn took satisfaction in the thought. Like Karlaz, he himself had been busy, even in his recuperation. He had sent his cunning-men away, each bearing a message to a different warlord. Karlaz had sent messengers, too. Kronin, Shohar, Praxtin-Tar; they would all be told of Liss’ involvement, if they hadn’t known already. The messages bid them to meet at the outskirts of Ackle-Nye, where they were to await the arrival of the lions. Kronin himself would lead the attack. It would be a crushing blow, a tide so powerful even the Narens and their machines wouldn’t be able to stand against it. Tharn had only one regret about his plan—he wouldn’t be there.

Too weary and ill to make the long trip to Ackle-Nye, Tharn planned on bringing Karlaz to Dring first. There Tharn would wait until the war was over. He would rest and make himself well again. And he would be with Dyana. A smile stretched across his face. She would be proud of him. He knew she would.

“What now?” Tharn called to Karlaz. The warlord was with two of the warriors, a burly pair from his own village. When he heard Tharn’s question he frowned.

“Be silent,” said Karlaz. His warriors fell back as he took a step closer to the ledge. On his back was his jiiktar, held by a stout leather belt across his naked chest. The wind rose. Tharn remained dutifully quiet. He watched as Karlaz inched thoughtfully to the edge of the rocky ledge, spilling a tiny avalanche of stones down the slope. One by one the hundred gathered lion riders took their jiiktars from their backs and held them out before them, arms locked straight, weapons parallel to the ground. There was a tangible hush over the rush of wind. Down in the valley, the lions went about their usual business, oblivious to the
ceremony above. Tharn’s eyes darted down to watch them. They drank and slept and sired, and seemed to care nothing of their masters on the ledge.

Karlaz drew his own jiiktar from his back. Its twin blades sparkled with a blinding glimmer. He grasped its shaft in both fists and raised it above his head, stretching it out toward heaven and pointing his face to the sky. Eyes closed, he stood like this for long moments, silent, maybe praying, leaving Tharn to puzzle over his actions.

Then Karlaz screamed.

Deafening, shattering, he raised his voice to the gods and shook the valley with his thunder as the cry trilled from his throat. Like the blast from a cannon his voice fired into the sky, tearing open the peace of the wind and the valley’s nature, flattening the silence until all that existed was Karlaz. The warlord cried without end, without breathing, pushing his lungs beyond anything Tharn thought possible. Tharn gazed down into the valley. The grasses had stopped moving. The lions fell still. Each in turn raised its giant head to the hillside, staring up at the wailing master of Chandakkar. Karlaz’ voice went on, impossibly, his flesh reddening with effort, his forehead flushed and sweating.

Now the warriors joined in, mixing their voices with the warlord’s. Like Karlaz they raised up their weapons, screaming their inhuman song, breaking down the walls of heaven with an insistent pounding of sound. Astonished, Tharn could only watch the spectacle, watch as the lions of the valley rose to their feet and gazed up at Karlaz, their yellow eyes dawning with a primitive intelligence. A male of the pack stepped out from the grasses, craned its muscled neck, then roared.

And then they were all roaring, a chorus of monsters singing with the men, reviving an ancient song of battle. They roared and it was beautiful. Slowly, carefully, Tharn picked his way to the ledge to stand beside Karlaz.

Then Tharn raised his cane into the air and screamed along with the waiting warriors.

L
ucyler of Falindar peeked his face through the brambles and smiled. He had been too long from the hunt, and the distance to Dring had been too far. On the grassy plain below milled his quarry, unmistakable in their golden armor. But today they weren’t proud horsemen of Talistan. Today they were victims.

“There they are,” he whispered. “Like pigs in a pen.”

He stepped aside for Kronin to see, cautioning the warlord to silence. Though they were far away on a hillside, their faces painted green, there was always the chance that a sharp-eyed scout would spot them. Kronin slid in next to Lucyler and gingerly pushed away a handful of branches. He peered down the slope and grunted with satisfaction. The horsemen were sitting around in dumb boredom, idle except for the industrious few who groomed their mounts or polished their blades, awaiting the order that would send them at last against Castle Dring.

And there were the acid launchers. Three of them. There had once been a dozen, or so Richius had claimed. Hakan had returned to them full of Richius’ stories. Just thinking of his friend made Lucyler grin. He had wanted to see Richius himself, but there hadn’t been time. There was just time enough for the plan.

“The launchers,” said Lucyler. “See? The wagons with the big sacks on them.”

Kronin nodded impatiently. “Where is Gayle? I cannot see him. And who is that one? The one with the feathered hat?”

Lucyler looked out over the camp, trying to locate the big baron from a clouded memory. He had seen Gayle only once, and that was over a year ago. All he could recall about the Talistanian was his size and his imperious voice. Silently he scanned the camp, hoping to catch a trace of him. Gayle was the prize they were after. Even Kronin salivated over slaying his old ally. None of them had forgotten the baron’s awful gift to Richius. But if Gayle was below, he was lost in the sea of green and gold
uniforms or hidden inside one of the small pavilions. At last Lucyler shrugged.

“Maybe he is there, maybe not. In one of the tents probably. No matter. There are the war wagons.”

He stepped back to let Hakan have a look. Hakan moved in eagerly and made a small whistling sound as he sighted the wagons. He had never seen one before, and had only terrible tales to measure them against. He weighed the sight of them and decided their prowess hadn’t been exaggerated.